


The Python's Song

by Edoraslass



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, What is even wrong with me, someone take this, this is going to hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 12:03:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2150052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edoraslass/pseuds/Edoraslass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Behind one-way glass, Phil Coulson watches as Sergeant James Barnes aka Bucky aka the almost-former Winter Soldier is brought into the therapy room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Python's Song

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Disney's _The Jungle Book_

Behind one-way glass, Phil Coulson watches as Sergeant James Barnes aka Bucky aka the almost-former Winter Soldier is brought into the therapy room. He’s not handcuffed for these sessions any more; even though the doctors say he’s not safe enough to be released from the holding facility ( _and when will he be,_ Steve Rogers demands every day, _it’s been three months, he hasn’t tried to harm himself or anyone else in weeks_ ), they have apparently decided it’s safe enough to leave his hands free. 

Not quite safe enough to give him shoes with laces, though. Nor metal eating utensils. 

The door of the observation room opens, and Nick Fury slips inside. Coulson still isn’t quite used to seeing Fury stroll into a room as if nothing has changed, but this holding facility is as classified as a building can be, and Coulson assumes that Fury feels it’s secure, or else he wouldn’t show his face here. Or maybe he’s just interested enough in his killer’s rehabilitation to take a risk. 

“How many will this be?” Fury says after a moment’s silence. 

Coulson sighs. “Five,” he replies, watching as Barnes prowls the room restlessly. 

He stops every few feet to examine random spots on the walls; Coulson has watched often enough to know that Barnes is looking for surveillance equipment. Coulson thinks it’s more a nervous tic than any sort of actual search; Barnes knows perfectly well he’s being watched every moment of the day that he’s not in the bathroom of his holding cell. Or perhaps it’s to let them know that he could remove all such devices, if he were of a mind to do so. And although the intercom is on, the room might as well be empty, for Barnes makes absolutely no noise. 

“Five,” Fury repeats. “In three months, this guy has run off _five_ of our best psychiatrists.” 

“To be fair, he did attack the first two,” Coulson points out mildly, and feels Fury glaring at him. 

“And the other three?” 

“Barnes can be…uncooperative,” Coulson says, glancing at the other man. “You haven’t watched the recordings?” 

“No,” Fury says at length, biting the word off sharply enough that Coulson drops the subject. 

“The other three requested to be removed from the case for different reasons,” Coulson goes on. “But all basically came down to the same thing – he is _deeply_ uncommunicative, and he...uh…creeps them out.” 

Fury raises an eyebrow. “Is that what they put in their evaluation? He ‘creeps them out’?” 

“Farrell did,” Coulson says, and hadn’t he had a word or two to say to Farrell on the subject of unprofessionalism about that? But that’s why they’d brought in Farrell, in hopes that his unconventional approach might be more useful in coaxing Barnes to say more than “yes” or “no”. 

Fury snorts. “Farrell would.” 

Now Barnes is sitting in one of the two upholstered chairs in the room. He’s unnaturally still, eyes not quite blank but not quite alert, and he doesn’t blink often enough. Truth be told, it _is_ a little creepy, Coulson admits to himself, but he’s not a trained, experienced mental health professional who’s supposed to know how to deal with traumatized soldiers. And also, it’s Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes; if there’s anyone just as determined as Steve Rogers to help this man recover from the decades of abuse inflicted upon him, it’s Phil Coulson. 

“So who’re you sending in next?” Fury wants to know. “Can’t imagine anyone was leaping to take this assignment.” 

“I went outside the organization,” Coulson tells him, not quite sure how Fury will take it. “It seemed a better approach to try and find someone around here who hasn’t personally been affected by Barnes’ actions.” 

Fury nods approvingly, and Coulson’s relieved. Nick Fury’s not his boss any more, but he still has Coulson’s utmost respect, and like it or not, Coulson would still like to have his. 

“He’s a consultant profiler for the FBI,” Coulson says, “helps them out with some of the more peculiar serial killer cases, that kind of thing. By all accounts, he’s brilliant.” 

Right on cue, the door to the therapy room swings open. Barnes doesn’t startle, but he does blink, and his eyes come into sharp, wary focus. 

The man who enters is tallish, lean, with a sharp face, impeccably styled hair, and a dark suit that gives the impression of being plaid without actually being plaid. He moves very precisely, very deliberately, and Coulson wonders what he’s been told about his new patient, because he doesn’t give Barnes’ metal arm so much as a glance. 

He simply steps forward, holds out his hand to be shaken – which none of the other doctors had done – and says, “Good afternoon, Sergeant Barnes. I am your new doctor, Hannibal Lecter.”


End file.
